


monastery monochrome

by orphan_account



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 20:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The briefcase doesn’t have money. It doesn’t have treasure.Klaus clicks the latches open, and for a split-second, he doesn’t exist. Everything vanishes from around him - he vanishes from himself - and there’s just… nothing. It’s oddly soothing.Then there’s a sharp tingle of electricity across his skin, and he’s sitting on hard earth, with the rumble of helicopters flying overhead.Klaus Hargreeves, and a world that goes from black and white to bursting with colour, and back again.





	monastery monochrome

 

> **1**

The briefcase doesn’t have money. It doesn’t have treasure.

Klaus clicks the latches open, and for a split-second, he doesn’t exist. Everything vanishes from around him, and there’s just… nothing. It’s oddly soothing.

Then there’s a sharp tingle of electricity across his skin, and he’s sitting on hard earth, with the rumble of helicopters flying overhead.

Klaus is exhausted and bloodied and his body is complaining about the way it contains far fewer drugs than normal, but his mind works quickly as it takes in the surroundings. A makeshift tent, all in the same dull shade of grey, with backpacks and guns and low lighting all around.

He is _definitely_ not in Kansas anymore.

Movement from one of the beds. Klaus catches the glint of dog tags against a bare chest, before his gaze moves up to meet the eyes of a distinctly drowsy soldier.

Eyes that glint with a sharp, cool colour, like ice melting on Klaus’ tongue.

There’s no time to process before something explodes nearby. The earth shakes around them, and suddenly the world is a blur of noise and movement, more chaotic than any situation he’s been in before.

There’s a guy shouting orders at him, no caring and no concern, and then people are shoving a uniform at him and there’s nothing else to do but put it on.

(Now, _there’s_ something familiar about this scenario.)

Klaus nearly loses the briefcase in the rush, but as soon as he’s been judged satisfactorily equipped, he grabs hold of the handle, and clings tight.

He finds himself shoved onto a convoy, stumbling into a cold metal seat as he keeps the briefcase close. Then they’re moving, driving through a jungle that has a ghost standing watch at every tree. He forces himself to look away; they’re even more broken than his usual ghosts, but like all ghosts, all of them will want something from him.

It could be minutes later or it could be hours, but eventually, his body seems to run out of adrenaline. With no energy left to panic, Klaus finds his eyes drifting shut. In the moments between waking and sleeping, he almost forgets about the mystery man and his blue, blue eyes.

 

To tell the truth, when Klaus wakes up, he thinks he’s high.

He’s done it before: taken enough drugs that it felt like there were colours swimming in front of his eyes, plastered over the dull grey shades of the world.

In the hazy moment between sleep and waking, it seems like the only explanation for the golden sunlight streaming through the window, warming his skin like a lover’s touch. Nothing that beautiful has ever been real.

Then the jagged edges of the world reassert themselves, and he startles in his seat.

Eyes turn to him, but the soldiers sitting around him all seem to brush him off after a moment’s consideration.

Right. Soldiers. He’s surrounded by soldiers, on a convoy going through the jungle, with a uniform that half-fits and a gun that feels unnatural in his hands.

(He laughs, with a touch of hysteria, abruptly remembering Diego’s childhood insistence that guns were for cowards. Well, Klaus is a coward and he’s got a gun, so that sounds about right to him.)

Honestly, the new vibrancy of the world is the least of his worries. It may even prove to be an interesting novelty, as long as he doesn’t think about the implication.

The implication in question lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You just get in country?”

He may cut your typical all-American soldier boy figure, but this guy’s gaze is filled with nothing but a soft understanding. There’s a hesitance to his expression that reminds Klaus of the first boy he ever kissed. It’s sort of sweet.

(Klaus is doing a really bad job of not thinking about the soulmate thing.)

Klaus replies in the affirmative, because it’s not technically untrue, and somehow the guy’s expression softens even more. He laughs, like he understands how Klaus feels, and Klaus laughs with him, because there’s nothing else to do.

“Yeah, shit’s crazy, I know.”

He can’t know, because Klaus’ life is a whole other level of ‘shit’s crazy’, but maybe he _does_ know, a bit. Klaus has met some ex-Army types in rehab, and they’ve all been just as majorly screwed up as him, so Klaus can’t make any assumptions.

“You’ll adjust.”

Klaus nods, because he’s pretty good at adjusting, and besides, once he gets a moment alone, he’s going home. Except…

“I’m Dave,” his soulmate says, holding out one strong hand.

“Klaus,” he replies, and takes it.

Curiosity killed the cat, and all.

 

 

> **-1**

Somehow, the Academy feels even more monotonous than the rest of the world.

Klaus wouldn’t put it past Dad to have decorated in black and white, just to be an asshole, but that seems like a lot of effort when he probably didn’t expect any of his messed up little freaks to ever get a soulmate.

“The old bastard probably didn’t even have a soulmate himself,” Klaus mutters.

He’s alone, more or less.

As soon as he’d been pronounced stable (or at least, unlikely to keel over and die in the next twenty-four hours), he’d signed himself out of medical attention, and caught a bus home.

Somehow, breaking into his room is even easier than it was when he was a kid, sneaking out every night. Okay, it’s a little less _subtle_ now he’s a grown man, but it’s all the same steps, and it means less talking than knocking on the front door, and easy access to a comfortable bed.

It’ll probably be morning before Pogo notices he’s here, and Klaus is not complaining.

The last thing he needs, after the evening he’s had, is Pogo’s disappointment. Worse, Pogo might try and commiserate with him, and Klaus has been all out of familial commiseration since Ben’s funeral, and he certainly doesn’t have any left for _Dad._

Oh, shit, Ben. Ben doesn’t know yet, and Klaus is going to have to break the news.

“What don’t I know?”

Klaus startles, sitting up. Ben is perched at the end of his bed, one eyebrow raised. Klaus groans, throwing himself back down onto the mattress.

“If I’m still seeing you, clearly I didn’t overdose hard enough.”

Ben’s other eyebrow raises. Nevermind, Pogo’s judgement would have been fine compared to the judgement of an omnipresent dead brother who’s sick of Klaus’ shit.

“You overdosed?” Whatever Ben was going to say next, it seems to fade off his tongue as he looks around. “What are you doing back here?”

Klaus laughs, staring up at the ceiling.

“Tell me, Ben, do I look funeral-appropriate?”

“You look like a corpse.”

“Excellent.”

There’s silence. For a moment, Klaus wonders if Ben has disappeared, but he doesn’t sit up to check. That would be what Ben would want, after all, and Klaus isn’t going to play into his hands _that_ easily.

There’s a soft sigh.

“So Dad’s dead.” Ben sounds disappointed, for some reason.

“Oh, come on, at least draw the guessing out for a _bit!_ Maybe Pogo died, for all you know!”

“If Dad wasn’t dead, you wouldn’t have come back here, not even for Pogo. You definitely wouldn’t have snuck in through your own bedroom window.”

Klaus pushes himself up onto his elbows, scowling at Ben.

“You’re a ghost, you’re not _psychic.”_

“Klaus, I’ve been hanging around you for how many years?” Ben waves his fingers at Klaus. “I’m _basically_ psychic, when it comes to you.”

“It’d make my life easier if you _were_ psychic. Then I wouldn’t get judgemental looks for talking to you in public.”

“I know you, and I know I don’t want to hear every thought that goes through your head.”

“Sucks to be you, then, because my head is a great place to be!” Klaus sits up properly, cross-legged on his bed like they’re having a sleepover. “Now, come on, am I wearing black or not?”

“You know _that’s_ not how ghosts work.” Ben suddenly looks deeply tired, but at least he’s stopped being so judge-y.

“Are you sure?” Klaus widens his eyes, faux-innocent. “Maybe I should try fixing you up with a nice ghost girl. Or ghost boy, or whatever. I’m sure there’s plenty of eligible bachelors in the afterlife.”

“That’s _also_ not how ghosts work.”

“Ugh, whatever.” Klaus waves a hand. “Do I _look_ like I’m wearing black?”

“No one will be able to tell either way.”

That works. As much as Klaus is tempted to dress as brightly as possible, just as one final ‘fuck you’ to Dad, he doesn’t need that judgement from his siblings. He’ll get enough judgement as it is for literally everything else about him.

Besides, he can raid Allison’s closet in the morning. Y’know, see if she’s got any cute funeral wear that’ll fit him? It’s been a while since he last wore a skirt.


End file.
